


och att leva förgäves är mindre än att dö. (and to live without meaning is worse than dying.)

by hellsinki



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Elliot n Mr Robot have worked it out bw themselves, M/M, Post S3, SOFT tyrelliobot with ANGST, Tyrell is a tragic character but also soft n determined, Tyrell learns the identity of Elliot's alter ego, cuz that Swedish fish deserves it, in which Elliot n Mr Robot n Tyrell are all in love, some Irving/Tyrell moment too bc they cute, they take turn being in love with Tyrell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 12:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14472837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellsinki/pseuds/hellsinki
Summary: They all live in symbiosis now; the three of them; Tyrell, Elliot and Mr. Robot. And they’re going to bring the world down; one stuck-up asshole at a time.“Elliot.”A reproaching frown. “Don’t call me that.”Confusion dabs the pale blue of his eyes in darker shades. “What do you want me to call you, then?”“By my own name. Edward.” Like it’s obvious.He can’t help the grimace at the revelation. It’s an automatic response. “Elliot’sdad?”





	och att leva förgäves är mindre än att dö. (and to live without meaning is worse than dying.)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic took AGES to be finished. It should've been multi-chaptered but I have a bad record for leaving things half-finished, so i'm gonna post it all at once. Who else agrees with me that Tyrell needs to be loved? :D

 

**Part I**

 

“Elliot.”

A reproaching frown. “Don’t call me that.”

Confusion dabs the pale blue of his eyes in darker shades. “What do you want me to call you, then?”

“By my own name. Edward.” Like it’s obvious.

He can’t help the grimace at the revelation. It’s an automatic response. “Elliot’s _dad_?”

In retrospect, which comes two seconds too late after his initial facial expression of bafflement and a little dose of consternation, it actually makes sense. In a way that most things related to Elliot Alderson makes sense.

“Yup.” Insolent. Supercilious. Confident. He packs all that in a simple affirmation. “You have a problem with that?”

His body takes on a defensive posture, arms crossed over a puffed-up chest, as if he has forgotten the many times he’d lost to Tyrell, on purpose or otherwise, in a fist fight.

“I should, as any sane man would in my situation.” He shrugs, the expensive fabric of his navy suit pulling tightly over his shoulders. “But I don’t.”

“You barely qualify as sane.” He says sagely, running his eyes all over Tyrell’s frame as if the signs of insanity are sticking to his pressed dress pants and tailored suit like the dust in the air.

Or maybe it’s just meant as some crude display of sexual attraction.

“Maybe that’s the reason, yes.”

“Or?” He reads it easily in his tone, like he always does when he is not exactly _Elliot_ with his head in the clouds, but someone who has paid more attention to Tyrell over the past months. Elliot’s _dad._ Tyrell is still unsure how to feel about that.  

In the _end_ , Tyrell decides, it doesn’t really matter because it has always been like this from the _start._

“Or I love you too much to care.” The confession comes to him as naturally as breathing now, but no less painful. Not that he is any stranger to pain.

“Do you?”

“You could tell, couldn’t you.” The words are laced with the pain and disappointment he has been holding in the back of his throat longer than he could remember how his saliva was supposed to taste like without the bile.

The silence grates on his nerves like sandpaper; like sharp nails dragging across the board. He has half a mind to turn on his heels and save himself from more heartache before a hand grabs his shoulder in a vice-like grip.

A gasp escapes through his lips. The touch always does something to him, no matter how late it comes, no matter the context and the form and intention behind it. His mind can’t yet process that feeling. He wonders if he ever will.

“Maybe I do too, in my own way.”

His eyes widen. His breathing stutters into a halt. The words bounce inside his head like a rubber ball hurled spitefully by a petulant child. _I do too. Do._ What? What was the verb? It’s right on the edge of his mind. But it’s too painful to recall.

Still, he tries, because pain is familiar and he’s a masochistic bastard.

_Love._

Why does it have to hurt so much.

“R-really? I...I couldn’t tell.” He stammers like the lovestruck fool he knows he is, his cheeks feel warm, his hands clammy with cold sweats.

It feels like he has hit his head against the concrete wall so hard he has cracked his skull. Maybe he needs to stop repeating the word _love_ inside his head so many times. Each time, it’s like the reverberating sound of a gunshot.  _Bang!_ The bullet that didn’t hit him. _Bang!_ The bullet that saved him. _Bang!_ The bullet that defined him, empowered him, drove him. _Bang!_ The bullet that hauled him off his knees and showed him what is above him. Because it was his _destiny._ Because he passed the rite of passage. Because he was accepted into the circle of gods.

Tyrell feels like his skin is peeling off. _Edward_ merely shrugs.

 

**Part II**

 

“Here’s a concept. You pulled the trigger at the arcade. The gun was not jammed. You shot me point blank. I died.”

Elliot shifts in bed, his back morphing fluidly against Tyrell’s chest. “Then what are you doing here now?”

It’s dark outside. _And_ inside. It always is at Elliot’s place. Tyrell doesn’t mind it as much as he once did. Back when he chased after the spotlight because he had something he wanted the whole world to see: _potential._ Now he has more things to hide, and the concept of darkness is a necessary evil if not at times somewhat _comforting_. The time to shine would come though, soon enough.  

“I’m your other alter ego.” He whispers into Elliot’s ear, like he means it as a thrilling yet threatening concept.

Elliot rolls over, large eyes glaring at him in the dark. Tyrell knows every line and curve on that face by heart. That face was part of the reason he fell in love.

“Fuck no, I don’t need any more of those, thanks.”

“But I’m prettier. Surely you’d keep me if you had to choose.”

“Getting it on with an alter ego is fucked-up, man.”

“So? Wouldn’t you like ‘fucked-up’?” He says it flippantly, not putting any real weight behind the words.

Elliot, however, takes them seriously. He sits up, pulling the sheet down Tyrell’s legs in the process. It’s chilly in the room, and Tyrell’s naked. He wants to whine, or sweet-talk Elliot back into his arms so he could feel warm again. But he feels Elliot’s hard edges poking through the surface like jagged teeth, and he holds his tongue, not wishing to get cut and bruised so early in the morning.

“Here’s another concept,” Elliot says after a long pause, without looking at Tyrell. “I actually didn’t survive the bullet wound you put into my stomach.”

They never talked about this. Tyrell thought Elliot had put the whole ordeal behind him. He hates what happened that night more than he hates Price; more than he hates Whiterose and his long-lost sense of control. More than the nightmares in which he kills his wife and son in cold blood.

“Then what are you doing here now?” But he plays along, because if he stops moving, he’ll drown.

“I’m your worst nightmare, haunting your guilt-ridden mind everywhere you go.”

The thought sobers him up. He sits up as well, suddenly feeling cold deep under his skin, to the point where he thinks he can hear his bones cracking.

Elliot has no idea about the ghosts walking next to Tyrell in broad daylight. They are here now, sleeping next to him in Elliot’s bed. But having Elliot’s warm body pressed against his makes him forget, if only for a few precious hours, of how cold he is feeling inside because of all those ghosts seeping like some thick, cold liquid through the pores of his skin. The ghost of his wife with a bullet lodged in her beautiful skull. The ghost of all their dreams and planning never realized. The ghost of all his mistakes, all the pain and suffering he endured to be the youngest E Corp executive in history. Even sometimes the ghost of his child. He has no idea where his baby son is right now.

He feels he is about to throw up.

“Okay, I got your point.” He forces the words past the rising bile through a clenched jaw. “We don’t like ‘fucked-up’.”

“No we don’t.” His tone is soft. Almost apologetic. Elliot cannot see Tyrell’s ghosts but he can see the pain in those pale, wet eyes. “Even if we both _are_ fucked-up.”

The assumption unsettles him like he has just begun to see the faint outlines of Elliot’s ghosts. He has never thought of Elliot as _fucked-up._ He used to call him a _god_ , for fuck’s sake. And he still holds Elliot on a high pedestal. He is not like anybody else. But that doesn’t mean he’s fucked-up. To Tyrell, Elliot is still and will always be _extraordinary,_ exceptional, because he doesn’t know how to be anything else, even if he tried _._

“But I like you.”

The simple, honest admission pulls a smile from Elliot’s usually emotionless lips. “So maybe we aren’t.”

Tyrell leans in for a kiss and marvels at how easily he can do that now.

There’s nothing _fucked-up_ in the kiss; in the way Elliot’s hand reaches up to tangle fingers into his hair; in the way Tyrell moans into Elliot’s open and pliant mouth. In the way they slowly sink back into bed, curling their naked bodies around each other in the darkness of the room.

This is beautiful. This is extraordinary. It is here and it’s all theirs now.

 

**Part III**

 

“Why him? What’s so special about Wellick that you can’t just let go?”

Darlene is pissed at the arrangement. Predictably so. But Elliot hasn’t even told her the half of it. He doesn’t think he ever will. Admitting to everything related to Tyrell requires courage on a colossal scale. It needs recalling great chunks of memory that he has given up to Mr. Robot and will probably never be in the right state of mind to take back. It also needs brutal honesty with himself and his feelings.

He doesn’t have any of those, so he didn’t tell Darlene anything more than ‘Tyrell is on our side. I trust him. You should, too.’

But Darlene’s trust is not that easily bought, so Elliot has to find a way to translate his feelings --  the ones he has been trying to beat into a shapeless glop so he wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore --  into words; half-assed words; treacherous words; rotten words. All caged inside his mind like some wild, wounded beasts.

He talks to himself way too much to remember how to talk to others outside his own mind.

“He’s honest.” That one thing that makes Tyrell so different from the rest of the world around Elliot. “He’s honest with _me._ I want someone to tell me everything as it is, without any filter or consideration or manipulation.”

“And he does that for you?” Darlene still sounds skeptical but for some reason, Elliot is still willing to elaborate.

“He told me he killed a woman with his own hands. He also told me he loved me even though he was married and I hadn’t given him the time of the day.”

It’s becoming gradually easier to talk. And he feels better about it, too. He hadn’t said a word about Tyrell to Krista. He doesn’t know why talking about him to someone other than his alter ego, other than his therapist, feels like such a relief instead of a barn of wool lodged inside his throat.

He trusts Darlene. That must be it. Or maybe he’s just ready now.

“He also didn’t know anything about Mr. Robot. All this time, he’d thought he was working with _me_ , that he was loyal to _me_. I forget things, and it makes it easier for everyone to lie to me. He doesn’t. He’s never done that to me.”

He stops the moment he realizes his voice has hitched, his eyes started to sting, and his head begun to spin. He isn’t getting sentimental over Tyrell fucking Wellick, goddamnit.

“But he’s a fucking psycho!”

Darlene’s outburst pulls him back inside his dark, dingy room. “Aren’t we all?” And then Mr. Robot appears by his side, as if to prove his point, and says something that Elliot finds himself completely agreeing with, repeating it aloud so that Darlene could hear it too. “And he’s the perfect kind of crazy. The kind that works for me.”

“Elliot. He shot you!”

“Because I asked him to.” He repeats Mr. Robot’s words again. It feels good to be on the same side as him. “And I shot him too. I almost killed him. But then he went to his knees and pressed the barrel of the gun to his forehead and begged me to pull the trigger again. I didn’t and he hugged me and told me he loved me.”

He can see it as the words flow from his lips the scene unfolds before his eyes. Tyrell’s designer pants collecting dust on the ground as the man kneels down and orders Elliot, _Mr Robot,_ to shoot him again. Not because he’s finally lost his mind and truly believes that he’s immune to any gunshot because he’s a _god_ , but because he thinks life would be pointless if he can’t have Elliot on his side, and a pointless life is worse than death, because at least in death there can be purpose.

Tyrell Wellick is not afraid of death. He’s afraid of sterility. He needs his life to have a meaning. He can work around the loss of control. But he can’t function without purpose.

Shit. How does he know so much about Tyrell? Right. He doesn’t. This is all Mr. Robot.

“Fuck, Elliot. Are _you_ in love with him?”

I want him on my side all the time. I want to work with him, share all my plans with him, listen to his voice telling me how perfect we are, that we are gods, that we can change the world together; listen to him just call me Elliot for the thousandth time in that reverent tone, like no one has ever called me before.

He doesn’t say any of those aloud. At least, he doesn’t think he has. “Do _you_ think I’m in love with him?”

Darlene sighs. She flops heavily into Elliot’s worn-out couch and lights a cigarette. “Does he know?”

“No. maybe. I haven’t told him; not in words. But he might know anyway. I let him stay the night.”

Her eyebrows rise impossibly high, the burning cigarette in her hand is almost dropped. “In your bed? After you fucked?”

“You really want the details?”

“Jesus, Elliot, fuck no. I want you...I want you to get a fucking grip on yourself.”

“Why?”

“I’m worried about you, dickhead.”

“Again, why?”

“Seriously? Okay, listen, this Tyrell dude, he isn’t good for you.”

“Why?”

“Will you cut it out with the whys already? Fuck. Okay. I don’t have any concrete evidence or any such bullshit, but I have this feeling, alright? That he's gonna screw you over.”

“And what if he does?”

Not the response she was expecting. It wasn’t his, anyway, so it also took him by surprise. Mr. Robot always comes up with the punchlines.

“What...what the fuck do you mean _what if he does_? You want him to screw you over?”

“No, but even if he did, what would he gain, and what would I lose?” He continues Mr. Robot’s train of thought. He’s the practical one, and Elliot is the nihilist. Somehow they have learned how to toggle between those two modes to appear like a relatively functional human being to the rest of the world.

“You’re seriously asking me that? Isn't that kinda obvious?”

“Is it? I can't see it.” Mr. Robot shrugs. He’s good with all those acts of nonchalance.

Darlene can’t tell them apart. Not as well as Angela does. Or _did._ Because right now he doesn’t think she would have noticed the switches either. Not when he and Mr. Robot have finally decided to stand on the same side of a big ass war brewing ominously all around them.

Tyrell, would, maybe. But that’s only because Mr. Robot wants him to know when it’s him around. He craves Tyrell’s attention like a shadow craves the sun. It’s as if every time Tyrell acknowledges his presence, he feels he has come to life.

“Maybe that’s because he’s already screwed with your head.”

Or maybe I know I can trust him to be always on my side, even when I’m confused which side I’m supposed to be on.

He doesn’t say it aloud.

 

**Part IV**

“I talked to...Edward last night.”

They are having breakfast at the table. The third time this week with Elliot staying the night in Tyrell’s bed, waking up around the same time as him to take a shower, eating something Tyrell has made before getting dressed for work; E Corp. Coming full-circle. Tyrell can always appreciate the finer details in a cosmic irony, even if he’s gone through too much loss to remember how to be truly happy anymore.

It’s _domestic_. The way Tyrell has never felt before and always wished for and mostly lacked. It’s almost _perfect_. The way nothing has ever been in his life. It’s _beautiful._ The way Elliot is and his reserved smiles and lingering gazes of awe. This is _their_ life now. Tyrell smiles.

“Shit, man. Don’t call him that. It freaks me out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. He asked me to call him that. What do _you_ call him?”

Elliot gives a half-shrug, putting his cup of coffee back on the table. It’s quiet in the kitchen. Tyrell hasn’t bothered with turning on the TV this morning. Elliot stalls for a little while, but Tyrell is patient. He doesn’t mind waiting another lifetime for Elliot to be ready to share everything about himself with him. The secrets, the memories, the aspirations, the plans; the smiles, the touches, the intimacy, the _love._

Elliot returns his gaze to Tyrell; unblinking, imploring, steady. Tyrell holds his gaze, and his breath. “Mr. Robot.” He finally says.

Tyrell has seen that tattered, dirty old jacket with the tag on it, hung up in Elliot’s wardrobe like some prized possession. He had hacked Elliot a long time ago, had gone through his father’s files on E Corp’s database in an attempt to understand Elliot in the only way hackers knew how. That’s why he knows Edward Alderson opened up a computer store after he was fired from E Corp and named the shop ‘Mr. Robot’. That’s why he doesn't ask Elliot to elaborate. That’s why it has always been easy for him to hear Elliot out even when the hacker wouldn’t utter a word.

“Alright.” He concedes easily, because making sure Elliot is happy and comfortable is the only thing that truly matters. “I talked to Mr. Robot last night. After we had sex and you passed out on me.”

He chuckles at the memory, because the thought makes him happy. Elliot gives him a sidelong glance. “Okay.” He says warily, unsure of what point Tyrell is getting to.

“He wanted to...he wanted me to have sex with him too, but I didn’t know how you'd feel about it since it’s your body and all. So I said no.”

The tension visibly leaves his hunched posture. He picks up his cup and tries to hide his face behind it as he takes a careful sip.  

“That’s very...considerate of you.”

“So...um...how do you feel about it?”

“You wanna fuck him?”

He wouldn’t be averse to the idea. No, actually he would be thrilled. He loves it when Elliot, _Edward_ , becomes assertive like that. He might even put Tyrell in a choke collar. The thought makes heat pool between his thighs pressed together under the table. “Not if you don’t want me to.” He says instead, in a measured tone.

He doesn’t get any response.

“Elliot.” He presses him for one.

“I dunno. How bad does _he_ want it?”

“I’d say pretty bad. He almost didn’t take no for an answer and only stopped when he saw I wasn’t getting hard.” And how he managed that, staying uninterested in the face of Edward’s advances, the confident, cocky alter-ego wearing Elliot’s beautiful skin, was a complete mystery to him.

Or...maybe not. Maybe love was really all that truly mattered from the very start.

“Do what you want, then.” It’s neutral, borderline aloof and dispassionate. _Bored_. Like he doesn’t care. Tyrell thinks it’s a front.

“Really? Is that what _you_ want?”

Elliot runs the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. Holds Tyrell’s eyes in a steady gaze of his own. “He wants you. He won’t stop until he gets you.”

Tyrell’s hand is gravitating toward Elliot’s, but he forces it to remain by his side on the table. “Elliot. I can belong to both of you.”

Elliot eyes Tyrell’s hand, expression guarded, thoughts running through his head faster than the speed of light. After another stretched silence, he leans forward in his seat. “You -” and the hand that grabs Tyrell’s and the words that next leave his mouth are Mr. Robot’s. “- already do.”

 

**Part V**

 

“Here,” Irving takes a few papers out of a black briefcase and hands them to him. “I did all the necessary paperwork and pulled every goddamn string there was; met a few more annoying snakes that needed to be taken care of.” He waves a hand in total apathy, as if the idea of going on a killing spree was barely an inconvenience to him. “Now all you gotta do is sign the papers and go get your son back.”

Tyrell is holding onto the papers so hard they have wrinkled under his trembling fingers. Outside the pub, the world has ceased to exist. Inside, there is only Irving’s lopsided smile, Tyrell’s fast beating heart, and no oxygen to pull into his lungs.

When Irving called him on a secure line this morning to meet him in a pub on 20th and 8th, he wasn’t expecting the meet-up to be about his son. _If you’re seeing me, that means you’ve fucked up_. Tyrell has been thinking of every worst case scenario that would explain why Irving had requested to see him now.

“Why?”

“We had a deal. I’m truly sorry that I couldn't deliver on it. This is the second best thing I could do for you. Or you could just take it as an apology.”’

An apology for your murdered wife; an apology for your lost freedom. Tyrell isn’t in Ukraine living a peaceful life with his family, but he is the CTO of E Corp, he has Elliot by his side, and now, he can finally have his son back.

 _Apology accepted_ , he thinks. “You chopped Santiago into pieces.” He says instead. Because he thought Santiago’s gruesome murder was also a part of Irving’s plan for making it up to him after Tyrell told him how the Dark Army mole had threatened him with his son’s safety.

“Uh, yeah he was rude to you. Couldn’t let that slide now could I.”

Tyrell returns Irving’s sly smile. “Will I be seeing you around?”

“I wouldn’t mind dropping by sometimes, see how you and your little boy are doing.”

Tyrell’s smile turns genuine this time. He wouldn’t mind it terribly if his son grew up knowing someone like Irving, all horrible mustache and bad writing and horrid sense of humor included.

“How’s...Elliot?”

The question catches him off-guard. He turns over various answers in his mind until he decides to settle with the truth. “He’s...waiting in the car.”

Irving nods in understanding. Of course he would know what that answer actually implied. After all, he had been witness to Tyrell’s pining after Elliot for months.

“Still going on about world change, ha?”

“Change is constant. So is he. What about you? I don’t suppose you’re still working with the DA.”

“Oh no, that phase is well behind me.”

“Good for you.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tyrell looks down at the papers, eyes almost unseeing, thought process faltering. He thinks he is still in shock. He needs some alone time to fully process the news. He thinks he needs to yell and punch the wall, and drink a whole bottle of vodka, exactly in that order. He also needs to tell Elliot. They could take a break from their crusade against the DA and celebrate with sex and vodka till midnight.

The thought brings a warm smile to his face.

“What you’re gonna call the little devil?”

“Irving.” He says with a straight face before bursting into laughter at Irving’s spooked expression.

“You almost had me there, boy.”

Tyrell snorts. “No matter how appreciative I am that you brought my son back, there's no way I’m going to name him something that hideous.”

“Hey, it’s a Gaelic name, and it’s pretty popular in here, but you’re probably gonna name him something weird and mighty in Nordic, right?”

Tyrell shrugs. He hasn’t really thought about a name. He had been so afraid that he was not going to see his son again that he hadn’t let himself get that far into the realm of wishful thinking.

One less ghost to worry about now, he thinks wryly to himself.

“Hey, you take care, okay?” Tyrell turns his face toward Irving, noticing his concerned expression, realizing his own gloomy disposition. “Don’t go around making any more enemies now that you’re a responsible father.”

“And if I did?” It’s not a dare. With things going on between Elliot and himself, and their grand plan to expose Price and take down the Dark Army, making dangerous enemies is a given.

For a moment, panic grabs at his throat and he loosens his tie in an attempt to feel less strangled at the thought of getting his son back only to lose him again in their bloody war against the world.   

“Well in that case, here's my card.” Tyrell turns his eyes downward at the card Irving is holding out to him. It’s just a white piece of paper with a number written with a sharpie on it. “Give me a call and I chop ‘em into pieces for you.”

Tyrell puts the papers down on the counter, takes Irving's _card_ and puts it in his suit pocket, and suddenly throws his arms around Irving’s neck. It’s an awkward hug, mostly due to their sitting positions on the stools, and partly because Irving hadn’t seen it coming. But then Irving places his own arms around Tyrell’s shoulders and gives him a genuine smile that he can’t see.

“Thank you.” He says softly, eyes welling up on their own accord.

“Of course.” Irving pats his back in support.

 

**Part VI**

 

“He has your eyes.”

They are wide, inquisitive, a startling pale shade of blue that Elliot didn’t think anyone else besides Tyrell would ever be in possession of. And somehow he still imagined Tyrell’s son to have those same eyes because they were the most unique feature to be associated with Tyrell.

Elliot is glad to see a replication of them on that small, innocent face.

“So I guess that means he’s cursed.” The tone is clipped, expression hard-set. The knuckles have turned white, holding aggressively onto the edge of the cradle.

Elliot can’t hide the surprise in his voice. “Cursed? Those eyes are beautiful.”

Tyrell’s features soften in the white, bright room. He untangles his fingers from the cradle and lets them brush gently over the back of Elliot’s hand. “You like them?”

He looks a mixture of bashfulness and triumph in the harsh whiteness of the room. Those eyes are especially vibrant now, like pools of clear water reflecting the sun.

“Are we talking about yours or his?” Mr. Robot chimes in as Elliot tries to process through the tender touch of those fingers and Tyrell’s soft smile.

“Mine. You like them?”

“The first thing I liked about you, actually.” Elliot admits in a somewhat breathless manner. He has never been good at expressing emotions; or much of anything with Tyrell standing so close Elliot could count his eyelashes one by one.  

“Why?”

Mr. Robot stops Elliot from embarrassing himself by blurting out, _because they’re so blue_ , and answers in his stead. “They don’t lie. Your mouth does. Your hands too. Your whole body language is a fatass lie to hide your vulnerability and weak points. Which is understandable of course. But not likable. Your eyes though, they have always remained the most sincere thing about you.”

Tyrell turns his body toward them, his hands cradling both Elliot’s and Mr Robot’s heads at the same time, and Elliot has no idea how that is possible but he is long passed the point of being freaked out by it anymore.

“So if I say you and my son are the most precious things to me in the entire world, now that you are looking right into my eyes, will you believe me?”

 _I always knew; I always did._ “Yes,” Elliot says breathlessly.

“You’re ours too, you know.” Mr. Robot offers with an offhanded shrug.

Tyrell’s breath hitches. His hands press a little harder into their skins. His eyes waver, as if a pebble has been thrown into them, making ripples on the surface. And when he leans in closer, Elliot’s gaze inadvertently flutters down to his lips.

“I’d lie to the whole world for you, though, eyes and everything.”

“Sentimental fool.” Mr. Robot says tenderly like he’s never done with anyone else before. And Elliot allows him to take control of his hand to caress Tyrell’s face with affection. Or maybe it’s both of them at the same time. He can’t tell anymore where what he wants starts and where what Mr. Robot wants ends when it comes to Tyrell Wellick.

“Yours.”

And when they kiss, there are three sets of mouths pressing against one another, and somehow they make it work.

 

**Epilogue**

 

He went to his knees for death once.

He won’t do it again.

Not because the first time didn’t teach him anything, because it did, it set his life on a whole different course. Not because he has suddenly developed a fear-mediating mechanism, because he hasn’t, he has never truly had a grasp on death, be it his own or others. It’s probably part of his psychosis, how unaffected he was and still is about the deaths of thousands of people in the 71-building explosions, which he is directly responsible for. And yes, he is aware of his own psychosis, in the capacity that he is aware of the color of his eyes -- he knows it to be true when others say it’s blue, but he rarely thinks about it at all. His psychosis is just something he has been living with his entire life, like a constant headache whose presence he only realizes in the few seconds that it’s gone, a crooked tooth in the back row of his mouth that he has gotten used to, a long, jagged scar on his back that he can only see the reflection of if he twists his head while facing away from a mirror. So he knows it’s there, he won’t deny it if someone calls him out on it, but he isn’t too conscious about it when he isn’t looking at it, when others don’t remind him of it, and he doesn’t mind that it’s there, breathing under his skin like a homegrown parasite.

He minds it when it takes control over his mental faculties and does things against his volition, like killing Sharon Knowles for one, but he also understands that it couldn’t have been any other way.

Killing Sharon Knowles was the biggest mistake he ever made because it was not part of the plan and it sent all of his other carefully constructed plans spiraling out of control. But it was also fate. Because if it wasn’t for the murder, Tyrell would not have been fired from E-Corp and never gotten a chance to work with Elliot.

Working with Elliot wasn’t endgame. But it was something he wanted.  _Truly_ wanted. It was adventurous. It was insane. _He_ was insane. For wanting it. To the point where it overshadowed everything else. Where it shattered all his walls and tore down all his masks. He wanted it that way. And if time was reversed to the night on the rooftop, and his psychosis didn’t get the best of him, he would still kill Sharon Knowles, not because he _wanted_ her dead, but simply because it was _fate_. All the steps he has taken on his own, all the missteps too, the smart moves and the stupid decisions and the uncontrolled variables, all that he gained and all that he lost, everything has brought him to this point in time, has made him the man he is now. And he has no regrets.

He has no regrets, at all. Because he has everything that matters now. He has his son back, and Elliot, and Mr. Robot by his side. And they are going to bring the world down, one stuck-up asshole at a time.

And he won’t go to his knees for death this time because there is purpose in his life while there is nothing more left in his death.

He will survive.

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> The last line is to comfort myself with the thought that they're not going to kill off Tyrell in the next season. 
> 
> *Work title from 'Ingenting', a poem by Edith Södergran. The last three lines goes:  
> "Vi böra älska livets långa timmar av sjukdom  
> och trånga år av längtan  
> såsom de korta ögonblick då öknen blommar."
> 
> Translation (by Malena Mörling):  
> "We should love life’s long hours of illness  
> and confined years of longing  
> as much as the brief moments the desert blooms."
> 
> The funny thing is, I actually came upon the poem after I'd finished the fic and then i realized how much the poem resonated with my fic, so i decided to use that line in the poem as a title...i think it was fate, haha.  
> I also feel obligated to admit that English is not my native language so feel free to point out any mistakes so i could fix it.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
